November 15, 2011

I have not written a movie review in a long time. I watch selective movies. I do my research on the story, on the conclusion and then decide to expose my senses to this massively powerful medium of absorption.

There is enough conditioning in the human mind without my deliberately exposing it to the unnecessary, uncalled for. Which also means, I don't go by regular reviews. I do not buy what is noise to the soul, to the mind. I buy what can enrich, what can cultivate, what can clarify, what can add more perspective. At least, according to me.

I went with a similar mindset to watch Rockstar. And I have seen reviews flying, opinions flying, like they always do. And I have gotten increasingly aware of the fact that today, the number of armchair philosophers has gone up from few to several.

There are reviews that say Nargis Fakhri is a bad actress. Her pout is artificial.

That a Gibson guitar costs 50k so how did a simple boy from a lower middle class joint family in Pitampura afford one?

Why does Ranbir's guitar not show any signs of being attached to amps and is still heard over a massive stadium?

Why does Ranbir stay in the durgah for two whole months before he realises he can go to the canteen owner's home for refuge?

Why is pain important to create a musical genius, it denies that happy creative people exist, and all those massive hits he delivers as a rockstar, he had already written before he got his heart mauled.

How does he perform in Prague again after he is deported from there on charges of breaking and entering?

I don't know. And I am wondering if I even want to know. But just for argument's sake, let's tell you of some comebacks I thought of over the past two days (two days since I saw Rockstar).

When I turned 13, my dad bought me a guitar. It was a Hobner, 3.8k in those days, 1997. Bloody expensive. There was also a Givson - a cheaper desi version of the Gibson. The Gibson was 5k. My dad could have bought it. He asked me if I wanted it but I was already in love with the snazzier-looking Hobner. Let's assume I bought it for 5k. In 1997. And then, after many years, sold the guitar to a boy from Pitampura, second hand by now. For 2.5k. Are you telling me that is not possible?

I am thrown out of my home. I am so upset and so naive about life that I end up in a durgah, where my mind and soul find some rest, some answers, and I stay on until I feel I am ready to go out and face the world.

Pain is important. I would not have learnt half the things I did had I not lost my father. Had I not seen my grandmother waste away with multiple cancers. Something about the fact that you are your only lasting company, adds significant nautical miles of depth to your life, and if required, to your singing, to your music.

Are there no happy creative people? Sure there are. But growth spurts happen when you are forced into becoming stronger - not in a play pen, but when life plays with you.

I don't know if I should continue with this tirade. But I want to tell you one thing before I close this post - there is love, which transcends every bit of logic and reason, which leads to miracle cures, which makes the same songs sound so much more meaningful, which lifts you up in its wild currents to an extent that you do not notice that a guitar is not connected to the amps. Which tells you, in the language of music and a movie, that your lover may drift away, but your love, your heart will hold you through. Broken, perforated, porous and shattered but still beating, thumping, breathing.

If a movie does that for me, there is very little that it cannot do for me.

Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing, there is a field. I’ll meet you there. When the soul lies down in that grass, the world is too full to talk about. Ideas, language. Even the phrase 'each other' doesn’t make any sense.